


Battle Wounds

by Darmanda



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Improvised Sex Toys, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, What Have I Done, i did a bad thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darmanda/pseuds/Darmanda
Summary: When a job goes sour, Mando and you return to the Razor Crest to tend to your wounds...and each other. Needless to say, first aid becomes a little more full-contact than anticipated.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/you, Reader - Relationship, Reader Insert - Relationship, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Others, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Original Female Character, The Mandalorian/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 327





	Battle Wounds

The ramp into the Razor Crest never felt more like a mountain, but it is one that you and the Mandalorian scale together, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, torsos touching rib-to-rib. It is impossible to say for certain who is supporting whom, just as it is impossible to distinguish your blood from his blood...or your enemies’ blood. Even beyond the pain and the raggedness of your mutual breathing, there is a simplicity to this moment that makes you feel truly _alive_. 

The cramped corridor inside the ship proves to be a new obstacle. Mando’s gloved hand sweeps down from your shoulder to your waist, hugging you closer. Your fingers find purchase around the beskar plating of his pauldrons. Your thighs and hips jostle against each other, but neither of you flinch away from the contact. You teeter--or he teeters--as you pause in front of the cargo hatch. Inside, the child sleeps soundly, green ears twitching vaguely at the sound of your approach. You find yourself looking to the Mandolorian more than the strange youth bundled in burlap. Despite the cold gleam of Mando’s helmet, you imagine that you can see him soften as he looks on the child as though mesmerized, even if that softness doesn’t extend to the rigidity of his arm holding you upright. 

Mando catches you watching him. The spell breaks. 

He coaxes you into motion again with a nudge. Moving is cautious work, but there’s an urgency even to your careful pace. Word of the trouble you caused is likely already spreading. More enemies would catch onto your scent if you linger on the planet too long, drawn to your bloodtrail like carrion. Your metaphor, perhaps, is a little too on the nose. Once you notice the steady _plip plip plip_ of blood dripping onto the floor, you can’t unnotice the sound or the warmth running down your limp hand in tiny rivulets.

 _This is the way,_ you think to yourself, though not without a sense of irony.

You only part from each other once you reach the ladder to the cockpit. His sudden absence leaves you cold as you gracelessly heave yourselves up one rung at a time before tumbling into your seats--him in the pilot’s chair, you to his left. He flips several switches, and the ship roars to life with blinking lights and a few metallic clangs. 

"So much for an ‘easy’ job...,” you mutter as the Crest lifts from the hangar. Your voice is thin, fragile, and more than a little breathless.

Mando inclines his head towards you.

“But you can’t say that it was ‘boring’.” he responds, referring back to your objection from when he had first offered you handsome pay for “easy” work. You agreed not because you needed the coin but because there was an unspoken plea with his request. You thought that plea had been for you, not because his gut correctly told him that the job was more complicated than it seemed. As your bleeding body attests, it was the latter and not the former that made your paths cross once more.

You slip someplace else for a time. The starry lines of hyperspace transform into meaningless effervescence, all shapes and colors and noise. It’s his voice that stirs you:

“Hey.” 

And then:

“Stay with me.”

You snap back into the present. All the stars have returned to normal, radiant even in your dazed state. The Razor Crest is idling somewhere in the outer rim. You feel the familiar weight of Mando’s eyes on you, but the loose slouch of his posture in the pilot seat is foreign. Uncharacteristic, even. It worries you, and his helmet reflects your concern back, both in your image on its mirror-like surface and in his own steadfast gaze through the visor. You stagger to your feet and resume your embrace in silence, limping your way back through the confined corridor, by the still sleeping child, and into Mando’s quarters.

As one, you grab the medpac from its shelf. His gloves fumble with the clasp, and you end up spilling its contents over a nearby table. It’s a meager, if not practical, supply--a laser cauterizer, some wipes, bacta spray, stim-shots, a bone stabilizer, some flexclamps. 

You ease yourselves into seats across from each other, close enough that your knees are touching. Necessity overrides any prudishness. You shuck off your armor, then your shirt. Your skin puckers with gooseflesh at the sudden exposure, and your fingers are already shaking when you reach for the cauterizer and lift it to the gash across your stomach. You fumble with the controls once, twice, before his hands move over yours, steadying you.

“This will hurt,” he warns.

You know, but you relish the sound of his voice through the vocoder too much to tell him. 

And it does hurt. Pain becomes more than a sensation. It is something you can see, white hot behind your eyes, and something you can smell through the sharp, sweetly metallic scent of your own flesh burning. You grunt and clench your jaw against the fresh agony of it, but then lean in against the pain...and against him. You touch your forehead to his helmet and meet his eyes. You cannot make out even the slightest silhouette of the man behind the armor, but you feel him staring back, steeling you for this last essential part of your survival. The buzz of the cauterizer stops. 

You try to be strong, to be tougher than this, but you can’t help but slouch backwards in your seat in relief. You watch him fumble with a cleansing wipe. Where he touches you feels hot and cold at once, and you sense his concentration as he deliberately traces the wipe along your stomach to carefully remove the streaked blood. He discards the dirtied towelette, and reaches for another. He hesitates before opening the packaging. You watch him carefully, poised to catch him if he topples. 

But instead he removes his gloves.

You can’t help but stare at his bronzed skin with an awe that feels almost disrespectful to his religion. Your breath catches as he leans forward and takes your face in his (bare) hands. He gingerly wipes blood from your split brow, your cheek. A thumb ghosts the contours of your jaw, the curve of your lower lip. His touch lingers too long for first aid but too little for your liking. Skin-to-skin like this, you want to memorize the topography of his hands, their scars and calluses. Before you can, his fingertips embark on what feels like a pilgrimage down your throat, your collarbone, your arms. 

You offer yourself to his touch and flush when you realize his devout concentration is purely pragmatic. His featherlight touch glances off a plasma burn; his other hand dances across the cauterizer before settling on bacta spray. Even the most minor of abrasions receive a careful dab of liquid bandage. 

He unceremoniously pulls you towards him to reveal another long laceration on your back, and you realize that he must’ve taken stock of your wounds well before you returned to the Crest. He wouldn’t have known--couldn’t have known--about the injury otherwise.

This cut requires the cauterizer, and you know it. Mando rests the cold cheek of his helmet against your own. The contact makes your heart lurch. You wrap your arms under his shoulders, grip his backplate, and brace yourself.

He offers no warning this time. The edges of your vision swim with dark static, and you degrade yourself with the faintest thread of a whimper. It’s only the rigidity assurity of his back beneath your palms that keep you grounded in the present, in consciousness. After what is both an eternity and an instant, he sets the cauterizer down.

All the tension in you uncoils. Your body goes lax against him, trembling, and as you try to recollect yourself, to coax your limbs into something more stable than a gelatinous state, his hands knead pressure points along your neck and shoulders that distract from the broiled slab of meat your back has become.

“Better?” he asks. 

The rich baritone of his voice through the modulator caresses you as surely as his touch. You wish that you could wrap yourself in it like a blanket, allow its dulcet notes to lure you into sleep. But that persistent _plip plip plip_ has returned again. You pull away from him. 

“Not until you are.”

The words are out before you can rein them in. Battle-bound though you may be, you still feel as though you must measure what you say carefully with him, lest he sense your probing curiosity and retreat back into his armor. Not the beskar’gam that serves as his second skin, but someplace deeper within where you worry you could not reach him. 

A long, tense breath passes before he begins to unfasten his armor, removing first his vambraces and shoulder pauldrons. Each piece he lays with precision and reverence on the table. He shifts to unfasten his cuirass, but the gesture seems to cause him pain. When you lean forward, he tenses, but you reach for his arm rather than the cuirass, your fingers ghosting over a cruel gleam of a metal lodged just above his elbow. You grip the shrapnel but hesitate until his free hand helps you pull.

You wait until his breathing levels before tugging at the fabric around the wound to reveal a deep, jagged gape that now oozes fresh, dark blood. You reach for the bacta spray, but he presses the cauterizer into your palm instead.

“It’ll leave a terrible scar--” you caution.

“--won’t be the first.” he insists. “Or the last.”

Privately, you wonder how much of his body is corded with scars from past battles, brawls, and shootouts. You raise the tool. His breathing sharpens, but he gives no further indication of pain. You hate to think how often he’s gone through this same process at this very table, alone, teeth gritted against the sharp agony of life.

The dark hue of his clothes works against you as you search for more injuries, and you suspect that may be the point of it. The texture conceals rips as much as the color hides his blood. You find most wounds by touch alone; your fingertips gently suss out points of blood-dampened cloth and ragged fabric edges. The beskar seems to have taken the brunt of the combat damage, but the blast from the explosion has left bits of scattered shrapnel and angry streaks of charred flesh. You tend to what you can feel, soothing burns with bacta and gentle caresses. 

He finds excuses to touch you as you work. When you dip your fingers into a tear on his sleeve, his fingers curl against your forearm. When you use the cauterizer on the outside of his thigh, he grips your shoulder, fingers dimpling your skin. Mando’s hand on you is a study in contrasts, warm caramel against your cooler tones. You try to focus on the task at hand, but that is becoming an increasingly tall order.

Perhaps his insistent touches are also distracting _him_. You seize the opportunity to trail your hand across his cuirass and dip your fingers into the seam near his ribs, where you know his worst wound is. Tension courses through his muscles as your hand comes away slick with his blood.

“Close call,” you remark. 

“Too close,” he agrees. Something about the weight of his voice makes you think that he’s referring to more than his injuries.

You move slowly towards the magnetic clasps of his cuirass. He has ample time to stop you, if he wants, to gently fold your hands away from him and dismiss you, but he remains still, sits tall with anticipation, and only moves to help you lift away the chestpiece. With the protective covering gone, you can see the dark stain of his injury on his side. You quietly correct your assumption that you are worse off than he is. The more accurate assessment humbles you: he is simply more acclimated to the cruel aftermath of battles barely won. Something aches in your chest that has nothing to do with the pain of your cooling wounds.

You prize the hem of his shirt from his belt. He allows you to raise his shirt to expose his side, and you respectively keep your eyes trained only on the injury. The irony of the situation is not lost on you. Here you sit, topless except for your bra, and you’re blushing prudishly at his bare hands and the small section of ribs that you can see.

When you bring the cauterizer to the angry wound at his side, his hands find your thighs and squeeze. You hear a gasp escape from the helmet, rendered static by his vocoder, and try not to envision how that breath would feel on your skin.

“Steady,” you advise, though the word is meant for you as much as him.

He grunts. It is only audible because his closeness, but the combined pressure of his grip on you and the sound of his voice shift your need from comfort to something else entirely. You sense a shift in him, too, but before you can consider what it means, his hands slip up your hips to coax you from your chair...and onto his lap.

The movement hurts. Hell, _everything_ hurts, but both of you are too caught up in this new closeness to care. For several frenetic heartbeats, you can only sit still, uncertain of your next move even as you shore up the strength to make it. No tactics can help you; there is no cover to be had from this sudden vulnerability.

“...looking to take the edge off, Mando?” you ask finally.

“Something like that,” he responds. 

“Most men would buy me a drink first.” The flirtation in your voice obscures the clarifying intent of your comment. Some quiet, doggedly rational voice in your mind keeps whispering that you’re misconstruing his actions, even if the backflips that voice does to explain away his touches--or your presence in his lap--are increasingly elaborate.

“I’m not most men.”

This would be the moment you’d kiss him, were it not for the helmet. You plant a chaste kiss on the beskar instead. Your lips leave a blemish on the surface--a human touch on impartial metal.

Some part of your brain dimly notes that its a silly, self-serving thing to do, so you steal one of his hands, raise it to your mouth, and kiss the palm. His skin tastes like you imagined it would: salt and copper and something earthy, like desert under the heat of alien suns. 

“No,” you murmur against his rough palm, “You’re not.”

You take one of his fingers in your mouth, and Mando _groans_. You think it must be the most beautiful sound you’ve heard, right up there with the discharge of a recently tuned blaster or the roar of a ship entering hyperspace. He twirls his finger along your lips, exploring your mouth in earnest, flirting with your tongue, your teeth. 

Your fingers curl against his back, drag your nails down his spine, and even through the coarse fabric of his shirt, you can feel him arch against the touch. His hands start to fumble with your bra. You consider relenting in palming his every delectable coil of muscle to assist him, but he just rips the thing off, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. Your breasts are sensitive to his coarse hand as he cups them, teases the peaks of your nipples with his trigger finger and thumb.

You are distracted enough by the ministrations of his dominant hand that you don’t notice the other until it’s on your rear, forcing you down until you are straddling him in earnest. The sudden friction between your hips takes your breath away. The lower plate of his armor is not exactly a forgiving surface for the growing sensitivity between your legs, but what matters to you is his breathing, the acceleration of his pulse, the raw _need_ articulated by his hands kneading your ass. You egg him on, grind against him, and he responds in kind with a desperate buck of his hips.

The rising heat between you makes him forgetful. He attempts to stand with you wrapped around him, hands bruising in their hungry grip on your thighs, but his balance gives out. He staggers, then roughly tosses you backwards onto the table. Your legs tighten around his back, pulling him with you and stabilizing him. The tangle of your two bodies sends much of the table’s contents crashing to the ground, armor and all.

He freezes. You worry that the clatter of precious beskar hitting the floor has shattered whatever sacred and fragile thing _this_ is.

“Maybe we should continue this when--” 

“No.” The edge and heat of his voice cuts right through your worries. You forget to breathe. “I need this _now_.”

He says “this,” but the way he flattens you beneath him supplants the “this” with an unsaid “you.” You find yourself agreeing, eager to work through your pain and fatigue just to have him, just like this: desperate and dangerous, aggressive and sweet. A complex tangle of contradictions that you want to sort out by making him unwind beneath your fingers.

He grips the table with one hand to keep himself upright. With the other, he reaches for a lone vambrace left on the table. In your periphery, you see his fingers shift against a button on the wrist guard.

The room goes dark. It’s a complete and utter blackness, and suddenly his strange choice to bunk in the middle of the ship--rather than the windowed room he offered you--makes perfect sense. Were it not for your legs still supporting him, you would have lost track of him entirely in the cover of this artificial night.

There’s the faintest tickle of something warm on your cheek, and then his lips--his _lips!_ \--are smashing against yours. You gasp and pull back in surprise, but his hand on the back of your neck holds you firm. So, you spar with him, lips and tongues tangling. You catch his lower lip in your teeth and draw another glorious moan from him. Not to be bested, that devious mouth conquers your throat, your breast. He practically growls when his attention pulls from you a starved, strangled sound. 

You touch what you can of him, an unspoken question in your touch’s querying slowness towards his face, but he catches your wrists and pins your arms above your head with a single hand. His fingernails scrape as he forces your pants downwards around your knees with the other hand. Your back stings at the ministration, not to mention the sharp bite of pain from the wound on your stomach each time he repositions his weight over you, but the feelings mingle incoherently with the pleasure of his touch, the feel of his skin against yours, until what remains is merely intensity and heat.

Mando’s knees knock against yours, spreading your legs. Your mutual urgency has negated any need for preamble. You are ready for him, _craving_ him, when he enters you. You stretch tight around him, and he fills you, slowly, with a few measured, deliberate thrusts. You can’t help but flex against the exquisiteness of him, the way he fits you wholly and completely. 

So this is what it means to have a Mandalorian. You drink in the force and pain and pleasure of it. He growls something in Mando’a, but it’s not a word that you understand. You only know that the way it rolls off his tongue sounds dirty and holy all at once. 

His hand slipping on the table--and the sensation of his erection slipping out from you, grazing your pelvis--jars you from your delirium. It’s the only warning you have before he nearly collapses. You’re not sure that he has the stamina,but you’re certain that he’ll fight against both exhaustion and gravity until he crumples. So, when the idea crosses your mind, you give voice to it immediately:

“Get on the floor.”

You feel more than hear an amused chuff from him, but he obliges, carefully lowering himself without relinquishing his hold on your legs. He tugs at your ankles. You slip compliantly down into his waiting arms and smirk at the way his hands slip up to serve as a buffer between your hurt back and the table’s sharp edge.

You settle yourself back onto his lap, and you feel his knuckles graze your inner thigh as he repositions himself at your entrance. This new angle has the benefit of deepening the penetration. It’s easier this way, too. For an interminable time, your world becomes merely grinding and rocking against each other. You take your pleasure in the slow, precise movements rather than the plunge of him into you. Your hands find new places to hold him, and you quickly lose track of who is holding whom in the embrace. His teeth sink into the cartilage of your ear, muttering your name and some filthy sounding words in his native tongue. 

You lean back to brace your hands on the floor, so that his head grinds with perfect anguish against something deep and devastating within you. Your palm grazes against the cauterizer, and the slowly blooming pressure at your core provokes you into gripping it, flicking the cauterizing attachment off of it with your thumb to render it ineffectual. Before you can power it on, Mando snatches it from your grasp and lowers the buzzing tool to your clit.

It’s your turn to swear as the vibration causes a delectable warmth to swell at your core, coaxes you into flinging yourself over that exquisite edge. He doesn’t relent as your muscles start to flutter against him but bucks against you harder. Harder. He prolongs your pressure, overwhelms your senses until every nerve flashes and flares, and you can only ride out the wave, revelling in the rolling spasms quaking your body. 

You are still delirious when he pulls himself from you and presses you flat against the floor. You can hear the filthy sound of your wetness on his cock as he strokes himself, and you reach with your hands to aid him. It’s the way you palm his sensitive head that causes him to come undone with a shuddering moan, a sticky warmth blooming on your chest.

Silence prevails, punctuated only by the sound of your gasps. You hear the table shift by your head as he uses it to stand, and then you lose track of his location completely. You worry, for the first time, over the meaning of this encounter. The memory can sustain you, of course, if this is all the contact is meant to be: post-combat care, a surge of hormones to combat the pain of injuries. Two fighters blowing off steam.

Just as you consider discreetly marching back to your bunk to clean yourself up, you sense him back beside you. He gently wipes his seed off off of your chest with another towelette. There’s distant static, the familiar crackle of his still-quickened breath through his helmet’s modulator. You feel a sinking sensation in your stomach at the realization that he’s pulled the helm back on.

“Glad to see that your aim is as good in the bedroom as it is on a job,” you jest, desperate to diffuse your disappointment and the heavy silence.

“You’re...not so bad yourself,” he responds. “Could easily find more work for us. If you have an interest.”

You’re honestly not sure if he’s referring to the job itself or the aftercare you just exchanged or some awkward combination thereof, but you’d be needlessly splitting hairs if you tried to figure that out. The important takeaway does not escape your notice:

He is asking you to stay.

It takes a great deal of self control to not simply blurt out a hurried acceptance. You manage composed amusement instead:

“Sure. Maybe the next job will actually be easy.”

You feel him lower himself next to you and reach out for him. He’s managed to stay mostly clothed this whole time, you realize...except for his helmet. You quickly pull your pants back up and over your ass before scooting closer to him.

“I can promise that you won’t be bored,” he responds with measured coolness, pulling you closer with a single arm.

You fold yourself against him and rest your head on the hollow between his shoulder and chest that feels like it's meant for your cheek. His thumb swirls elaborate paths on your shoulder. There are no further words that can serve either of you, no comments that would not risk breaking the illusion of this thing disguised as a business agreement, so you let the silence settle over you like a blanket. 

You surrender yourself to him, first, and then to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> More to come as space daddy inspires.
> 
> My thanks to Catemonsterq for preventing this from remaining in my docs, unpublished and unread forevermore.


End file.
